Pony Passion Read online

  “It’s a nightmare falling out,” said Kenny. “Let’s not do it again, all right?”

  I nodded, grinning and feeling teary at the same time. “New club resolution.”

  “Seconded!” said Rosie.

  “Thirded!” yelled Frankie.

  “You can’t say thirded,” said Fliss. “But I know what you mean.”

  While we were waiting in the lunch queue the M&Ms swanned past with their trays already full. They’re such greedy guts, they always push to the front.

  “Untwisted your knickers yet?” asked the Goblin (that’s our name for Emily Berryman) in her weird gruff voice.

  “What a shame you’ve got the worst project,” smarmed Emma Hughes. “But then, your presentation’s bound to be pathetic, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

  “Actually, Transport is the coolest subject,” said Kenny, “and anyone with even half a brain can see that.”

  “That’s not what you were saying to Lyndsey at break,” said the Goblin.

  “You sneaky little eavesdropper!” gasped Fliss. “You’ve no right listening in to private conversations!”

  The Goblin snorted. “Well, what’s the point when they’re as boring as yours?”

  And before any of us could reply they sailed off with their noses in the air, like the silly stuck-up idiots that they are.

  “Grrr! What would I give to squash those two toad-faces into a big pile of mushy peas!” growled Kenny.

  “We’ve got to make sure our project is a squillion times better than theirs,” said Frankie. “At least!”

  “We will,” said Rosie firmly, linking arms with me.

  Sitting at a different table from the M&Ms, we soon forgot all about them. Kenny kept making farty noises with the ketchup bottle, which made everyone fall about, and Frankie did her impression of Mrs Weaver in a bad mood, which is freakily good. I’d cheered up loads, but there was just one more thing I wanted to say.

  “Transport is definitely the coolest subject, of course,” I began sheepishly, not meaning it at all, “but, guys – you’re right that I’ve missed some Sleepover Club things because of the stables. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Frankie, waggling a chip in the lake of ketchup she’d made on her plate. “We all do other things, like Fliss goes to ballet and Kenny goes to those tedious footie matches. Oof!” Kenny’d grabbed her lunch tray and pretended to boff Frankie over the head with it.

  “And anyway,” Fliss said, prodding at her salad with her fork, “we don’t think all those things we said about the stables, honest.”

  “Only some of them,” said Kenny, with a wicked grin. “The minute you start stinking of horse poo, Collins, I’m outta here!”

  You’re going to think I’m mad, considering what had happened that day, but when I got home from school all I wanted to do was go to the stables. In three weeks’ time there was going to be a gymkhana there – a riding competition with lots of different races and games that you can enter with your pony. I’d played a few gymkhana games before, but I’d never entered a proper competition, so I wanted to do my best.

  On my bike I can whizz to the stables in about two minutes, which is dead handy. Today, the moment I got there, I went to see Bramble. She’s a lovely bay – brown with a black mane and tail. Of all the ponies at Mrs McAllister’s stables, she’s my favourite (only don’t tell Alfie and Marvel and the others!).

  And when you’ve had a wobbly day at school, there’s nothing like having a pair of kind brown eyes to talk to and a lovely warm furry neck to hug.

  “Hey, Bramble,” I said, stroking her soft nose to say hello. She nuzzled my hand gently. It seemed like she was pleased to see me.

  “Hello, Lyndsey!” called Mrs McAllister, who was walking across the yard. She’s my riding teacher, as well as being the owner of the stables.

  “Hi, Mrs McAllister,” I called back. “Can I do some practice today, for the gymkhana?”

  Mrs McA looked at her watch and pursed her lips. “Well… give me about half an hour. Then I’ll come and watch you do some jumping on. Bramble’s had a fair amount of exercise today, so why don’t you just give her a gentle warm-up while you’re waiting?”

  “Great!” I said. “Thanks, Mrs McAllister.”

  “Glad to see you’re so keen, Lyndsey,” she said, heading for her office.

  “Well, less than three weeks to go now!” I said.

  “Two, you mean!” she called, tapping the poster taped to the office window as she passed. “See you later!” And the office door swung shut behind her.

  Two weeks? I frowned, puzzled. But surely the gymkhana was on the 28th? “Wait a sec, Bramble,” I whispered, and ran across the yard to have a look at the poster.

  My watch just tells the time. It doesn’t have a little date window on it, like Fliss’s does, so I’m never the person to ask if you want to know the date (unless it’s my birthday!). But for once I could remember Mrs Weaver writing it up on the board this morning: Monday 16th.

  Well, I bet you’ve done the maths already, haven’t you? Yep, that’s right. Dozy here had been reckoning on nearly three weeks to turn herself into Cuddington’s answer to Zara Phillips when there were less than two. The gymkhana was a week on Saturday!

  That was enough of a shock in itself. But the next moment I felt as if Bramble had leapt across the yard and given me the most almighty kick.

  “Oh no!” I groaned out loud. “Frankie’s sleepover!” She’d said a week on Saturday, hadn’t she? And I had promised promised promised (cross-my-heart-and-hope-never-to-set-foot-in-a-stirrup-again) not to miss it. What on earth was I going to do?

  Through the window I could see Mrs McAllister, the phone pressed to one ear, looking at me weirdly. I was probably grimacing really gruesomely, worse than the M&Ms with tummy ache. Quickly, I turned round and marched back to Bramble’s stable, to tack her up.

  Half an hour later, when Mrs McAllister came out to the field and shouted, “How about some jumping on, then, Lyndsey?” I wasn’t feeling any better. If anything, I think I was feeling worse. My heart was going ker-boom ker-boom in my chest, like it was trying to get out, and I kept thinking how desperately I wanted to enter the gymkhana. I had to find a way. But how could I, after what I’d said to the others? Especially after the barny we’d had about me preferring ponies to my friends!

  It was hard to concentrate, but I needed to – jumping on is really tricky. You see, there are some races where, to be quick enough to stand a chance of winning, you have to get off your pony and get back on again while it’s still moving. I’m OK at the flying dismounts (sounds like a circus trick, huh?). It’s the vaulting – that is, the getting back on again – that I have problems with, big time.

  “Now try to relax, Lyndsey,” said Mrs McAllister. “And remember: watch Bramble’s stride. You should jump when the front foot that’s nearest to you hits the ground.”

  I nodded. I knew this. It was just easier said than done. And I had quite a few bruises from when I’d messed it up last time.

  Trying not to be nervous, I urged Bramble into a canter. I ran alongside, gripping her saddle in one hand and the reins in the other, and watching her feet. I was going to have to jump, swinging my legs out over her back end to land in the saddle.

  “Come on Bramble,” I whispered breathlessly. “We can do this!”

  And then I jumped.

  “That was a beauty!” I heard Mrs McAllister call.

  I was in the saddle – no bruises. I’d done it!

  “Way to go, girl!” I laughed, patting Bramble’s neck.

  Well, that put me on such a high I thought I’d show off and go straight into a flying dismount. I swung my body forward and my legs back. But one of my feet got caught in its stirrup. My other leg was already swinging over, and I could feel my weight dragging me out of the saddle. The foot that was stuck was twisting now at a really awkward angle, so I couldn’t get it out.

  It must’
ve all happened in a nanosecond, but to me it felt like some horrid slow-motion dream. Panicking that my foot wasn’t going to come free, I let go of the reins and was immediately flung out sideways. The ground swung up towards me with a sickening lurch, and then: thwack. Everything stopped dead.

  It took me a moment or two to work out what had happened. I just lay there like a sack of potatoes, with my face in the muddy grass.

  “Lyndsey! Lyndsey! Are you all right?” I heard Mrs McAllister’s voice right in my ear. She was out of breath; she must’ve shot across the field like an Olympic sprinter.

  I groaned and tried to sit up. But when I pushed on my left hand the most horrible pain shot up my arm. “Owww!” I yelped.

  “Don’t move yet,” said Mrs McAllister. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My arm,” I gasped. “Left… arm.”

  Straight away Mrs McAllister sprang into super-efficient emergency gear. First she checked me all over to make sure my arm was the only bit that hurt. Then, ever so gently, she helped me sit up. I was crying by this time, blubbing worse than my little brother Ben (who is the biggest cry-baby in the world, in case you didn’t know). I never knew part of me could hurt that much. I swear, if your arm felt like mine did right then, you’d have been bawling too!

  “All right, Lyndsey. We’re going to get you to the hospital,” said Mrs McAllister.

  “Where’s Bramble?” I said, turning my head. My eyes were so full of tears, everything was a splodgy blur.

  “She’s fine,” said Mrs McAllister. “She’s away by the fence, nosing about in the grass. Think you can stand?”

  I nodded, sniffing loudly. I hoped I hadn’t yanked on the reins in my panic and hurt Bramble’s mouth. But I couldn’t worry about Bramble for long. Getting to Mrs McAllister’s Land Rover took all my concentration. My right hand was holding my left arm close to my body to stop it moving, but somehow it still felt as if every step I took gave it a hideous jolt.

  Call me crazy, but in the hospital all I could think was: Kenny should be here! Kenny, as you probably know, is dead set on being a doctor when she grows up, like her dad. She just loves all that gruesome medical stuff. If she’d been sitting next to me while I waited in Casualty she would’ve been bouncing up and down in her chair with excitement and trying to guess what hideous diseases everyone else had.

  As it was, I was sandwiched between Mrs McAllister on one side of me and Mum on the other. Miranda, Mrs McA’s assistant, had rung my house as soon as we set off for the hospital.

  Mum kept saying relieved things like, “Thank goodness you were wearing a hard hat, poppet!”

  And Mrs McAllister kept saying apologetic things like, “Believe me, Mrs Collins, I would never let anyone out of the yard without one.”

  Mrs McAllister was looking quite shaken, actually. I guess it’s really rare that anyone hurts themselves at the stables.

  They’d given me some majorly strong painkillers, so I was feeling a bit better, though still really sore. It took ages to get everything sorted. They did an X-ray (Kenny would’ve been in orbit!), which showed that my arm was broken. Then, after another long wait, I had my plaster cast made. That felt mega weird.

  The cast went from my wrist to just above my elbow, and I was going to have to wear my arm in a sling, the nurse said, to hold it in place. Some slings are quite small, I think, but mine was like an enormous napkin. I felt like an Egyptian mummy!

  “How long do I have to wear the cast for?” I asked Mum on the way home.

  “Six weeks, the nurse said,” Mum replied. We stopped at some traffic lights and she turned to look at me. “Poor pumpkin. You were very brave.”

  Famous last words! For some reason that just made me burst into tears again. It was probably the shock of it all, Mum said later.

  When we got home, Dad came bounding out of the house and opened the car door for me. “But – what’s happened to you?” he said, gasping and staring at my plaster cast as if I’d just sprouted an alien growth.

  “Daaad! You are such a bad actor!” I shrieked. “Mum was on the phone to you every five minutes when we were in the hospital. I heard her!”

  “Oh. Right you are, then,” Dad said, slamming the car door behind me and ruffling my hair in the way that usually really annoys me. Tonight, for some reason, I didn’t mind.

  Ben and the baby, Spike, were already in bed, but my older brothers Stuart and Tom piled downstairs when they heard us come in. They’d even made a welcome home banner for me out of a couple of old tea towels stapled together.

  Before you go thinking they’re in any way soppy or nice, though, I should tell you that the banner said:

  It was in enormous red letters, so it was pretty embarrassing.

  “Mum, can I ring Rosie and Frankie?” I asked. And Kenny and Fliss, I might’ve added, but I thought I’d stand a better chance if I just started with two. I couldn’t believe so much had happened since the end of school, and they didn’t even know!

  Mum tapped her watch. “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

  I looked at the clock. It was 10pm! I couldn’t believe it. We’d been at the hospital for hours and hours.

  “You’ll have a surprise for your mates at school tomorrow,” said Dad as he kissed me goodnight.

  I grinned. I couldn’t wait to see their faces.

  But d’you know the craziest thing of all? You’ll really think I’m stupid, but what with all the fuss and worry at the hospital I hadn’t put two and two together. It was only when Mum and Dad had gone to bed, and the house was quiet, and I was lying in the dark beginning to realise that my arm was aching quite a lot, actually, that it hit me:

  I had to wear my cast for six weeks.

  That meant no riding for six weeks.

  And no gymkhana.

  Talk about a major downer. The next morning I felt like I had my own personal black cloud hovering right above my head. It seemed so cruel that I’d put in all that hard work, practising for the gymkhana, and now I wasn’t going to be able to take part.

  I’d even chosen the spot on my bedroom wall where I was planning to hang my winner’s rosette. “Poor Lyndsey,” said Dad when I told him at breakfast. “Talk about riding for a fall!” He thought this was brilliantly funny. I scowled into my Shreddies.

  My problem with Frankie’s sleepover was solved now, of course. I should have been glad. But I couldn’t help thinking I would’ve found some way to do both in the end, if only I’d racked my brains hard enough…

  Still, arriving at school cheered me up. I was so chuffed Mum hadn’t let me ring my friends the night before. What I would’ve missed out on!

  First there was Kenny, who raced into the playground as usual, then stopped dead in her tracks so that at least three people cannoned into her. It was like that moment in a soppy film when the hero and heroine spot each other for the first time. Except, the way Kenny stared at me, you’d have thought I’d grown three heads.

  Then Frankie bounded up and was about to jump on me for a piggyback when Kenny shouted “No!” and launched herself at Frankie in a flying rugby tackle. They ended up sprawled in a heap. I could hear Frankie’s voice coming from somewhere under Kenny, saying, “Hey! What was that for, rat-face?”

  But before Kenny could answer, Fliss – who’d just that minute turned up with Rosie – shrieked, “Omigosh, Lyndsey! You’ve hurt your arm!” as if I didn’t know, which sent Rosie and me into fits of giggles. Fliss stood there saying, “What? What’s funny?” which only made us laugh more.

  Soon I had the four of them clustered round me, all asking questions at once.

  “Did you actually break it, then?” said Frankie, rapping her knuckles on my cast. I nodded.

  “Was the bone sticking up through your skin?” asked Kenny, looking hopeful.

  “Urgh! I think I’m going to be sick,” said Fliss.

  “It does sometimes,” said Kenny indignantly. She frowned, thinking. “Maybe it was a greenstick fracture.”

&
nbsp; “What’s one of those?” asked Rosie.

  “I’m not sure,” said Kenny, “but I’ve heard my dad talking about them.”

  “Maybe it means your bones have gone mouldy,” suggested Frankie.

  “Urgh!” That was Fliss again. She was looking a bit green herself. Then she said, “Don’t worry, Lyndz. Do you remember when I broke my ankle?” Do I! Before yesterday I would’ve said it was one of the most dramatic days of my life. Fliss and Kenny had been trying out some dance moves at one of our sleepovers, when Fliss had come a cropper and ended up with her leg in plaster.

  “You’d think a broken bone would look funny when it mended, wouldn’t you? But, see…” She waggled her ankle in front of her “…you can’t tell, can you? It hasn’t gone fat or anything.”

  “What do you mean? It’s a balloon!” shrieked Kenny, and dodged niftily when Fliss tried to kick her. Fliss has delicate little ankles and is dead proud of them.

  Thankfully, before this could turn into a full-scale foot fight, the bell rang.

  “Been in the wars, Lyndsey?” said Mrs Weaver as we all piled past her into the classroom.

  “Riding accident,” I said. It sounded good, I thought – grown-up and kind of glamorous.

  It was cool, too, when people started asking if they could sign my cast. But Mrs Weaver barked, “Leave that for break-time!” and made everyone go back to their seats.

  It turned out that this morning we were going to see the exhibition at Cuddington library Mrs Weaver had told us about. In all the drama with my arm, I’d clean forgotten about our projects.

  Two teachers were going with us: Mrs Weaver and Miss Walsh. Before we set off, Weaver gave us one of her behaving-in-public lectures. “Remember that there will be other people besides you looking round the exhibition. And that means I expect very grown-up, considerate behaviour from everybody,” she said. “If anyone misbehaves, Mrs Proctor, the head librarian, will never let groups from Cuddington Primary go there again.”